THAT BREATH of air just now, breathed back to me from the heated stream bank, the scent of sun on earth rising on the slightest stirring of the air ... the mingled scents of moss and leaves, the brook. I remember and am there again, in that place that no longer exists, as a young boy who no longer exists. April's alchemy creates a memory out of mud and water, sunlight and fallen leaves; spring breathes on these and brings something not just to light but to life. At such unbidden moments, and they are fleeting, fragments of memory become so vivid that they live. I cannot see them, I can only feel them, these unconscious rememberings not just of what I was then but of what was all around me. That light of some deep yesterday, the sunlight on the water, the stream that sparkled by, the frog that looked back at me, and at the same time all the world around. Are these some last earthly existences destined to die with me? How is it they return to me, to take me back? Is there ever a going back to stay? Does all this lie in memory only?